A Kind of Romance (22 page)

“We’re going to Gypsy since—”

“I’m not going back there,” I said in a serious tone.

Benny laughed and leaned into my side. The flush of heat from his skin felt electric. Fuck, I wanted him all over again.

“Why not? You were fantastic.” He smirked. He waited for my eye roll before continuing. “Look, it’s not reasonable to impose rules in a noncommittal arrangement. Honesty is the best policy. I’m telling you now I’m going to Gypsy next week with Eric and—”

“I’m telling you I don’t like it.”

“I’m not sleeping with him. I’m—”

“Oh geez! I don’t want you kissing him, either! This isn’t gonna work. We’ll have to be monogamous.”

Benny crossed his arms and shook his head in irritated dismay. “Why not get married while we’re at it?”

“Hmm. Maybe you’ve got the right—”

“Stop! It was a joke.”

“Fine, but I still don’t want to share you.”

He studied me intently for a moment, then narrowed his eyes and nodded. “Let’s take it slow and… agree to be honest.”

I let out a deep sigh, then gave him a light shove and rolled on top of him. “Honest, eh? I honestly want to do this at least five more times tonight.”

Benny hooked his arms over my shoulders and smiled. “And I honestly think I’ll have a hard time walking tomorrow if we do.”

“That wouldn’t be good.” I chuckled, running my fingers through his hair. The contrast of dark hair on the white linen held my attention while I tried to formulate my question without sounding like a Neanderthal. “What exactly did we agree to?”

Benny’s grin widened as he hugged me closer and wrapped his legs around my ass. “You asked me to marry you, silly.”

“Oh….”

“But I said I wasn’t ready to settle down yet, so you suggested we stick with a looser title, so you get boyfriend rights without using that pesky word. Am I right?”

“I sound like a dick. You putting up with that?”

Benny chuckled and licked my jaw. “You’re kinda hot, so I’m tempted.”

“What about rules?”

“Basic ‘don’t be an ass’ rules apply at all times, but otherwise… let’s not overthink.”

OVERTHINKING WASN’T
an option. I was too busy at work to dwell on what I may or may not have agreed to in my personal life. However, in between my daily frantic phone calls regarding fluctuating market trends, I had to admit Benny was a breath of fresh air. Just seeing his name on my caller ID made me smile. He was funny, vivacious, and unexpectedly charming. He had a way of putting me in my place with witty banter and surprisingly sound logic that made the hectic everyday office buzz fade to background static. It was hard to maintain righteous indignation for long when verbally sparring with a pint-sized dynamo with blue-tinged hair. I may not have been clear about what exactly we were doing, but I had a feeling it was best idea I’d lucked into in a long time.

Most of the time, anyway.

Summer had a sly way of hitting the city hard. The average New Yorker looked forward to long, sunshine-drenched days after a harsh winter. It was usually a case of “be careful what you wish for” when record-breaking heat and humidity hit. By early August it had been scorching hot for weeks. I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow as I listened to Benny’s argument that walking versus riding the subway was the best way to get anywhere in Manhattan.

Anyone who knew me had to suspect there was more between us than casual dating. I was careful not to say much to my family. I didn’t deny that Benny and I were seeing each other, but I downplayed our relationship because I didn’t want to be interrogated every time they knew we shared a meal. It wasn’t anyone’s business. I ignored Carter’s knowing glances and my father’s hopeful ones and did what my best friend suggested months ago… I let go and enjoyed myself. No strings and the best sex I’d had in recent memory. But I wasn’t sure it explained why I agreed to last-minute, wacky ideas involving the subway, crowds, and heat. I was learning that with Benny, the journey was an integral part of the ride. And sometimes it was nice to give up the wheel and let someone else drive.

Though maybe not today, I mused.

“Walking is always my first choice,” he commented, sidestepping a group of tourists carrying enormous bags from a well-known Midtown department store. “Why risk life and limb with an overzealous cabbie? And as a daily patron of the subway, I’m qualified to argue that traveling by foot is still preferable. You know, real people can’t afford a Hector in their lives, Zeke,” he teased.

“I’m real people.”

“You’re jaded.”

“If by ‘jaded’ you mean I can choose not to dodge assholes who don’t look where they’re going… guilty.”

“I’m saying sometimes your bank account skews your vision of reality.”

I reached for his hand and laced my fingers through his. When he looked up at me in surprise, I gave him a lopsided grin that was something closer to a smirk. My smirk quickly turned to a grimace when I took a hit in the stomach with a tourist’s shopping bag. I scowled at my unrepentant assailant, then resumed the brisk pace Benny set as we traveled north on Fifth Avenue.

“Are you telling me if Hector pulled up to the curb on this fucking ninety-degree day with 95 percent humidity that you’d turn away from a private, air-conditioned Mercedes?”

“I would. Why waste Hector’s time when we can walk?”

“His time isn’t wasted. It’s what he’s paid to do. Hiring him was the best move I ever made. Listening to you on a hot summer day when you insisted on taking the subway wasn’t so bright. I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. This is what I get for—how much farther?” I complained as I dodged another tourist.

Benny stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk and set his hands on his hips. The red man-bag slung over his shoulder did nothing to detract from his fierce aura. His graceful, proud carriage turned me on almost as much as his smart mouth and willful impetuousness. Mischievous one moment, then easygoing and playful the next. There was no point denying that the things that once drove me crazy, like his ever-changing hair color and vivid clothing, made me smile now. Today, for example, he wore a bright blue, snug-fitted T-shirt to offset the purple highlights in his bangs. For whatever reason, I thought he looked sexy as hell.

“You’re an asshole.”

“What did I say?”

“Quit whining. I told you I wanted to see the new additions at the Met. You’re the one who insisted on coming with me. I’m not sure I invited you in the first place.”

“Who were you going to invite? This is part of our deal. For better or worse, I’m your date, baby.”

“Then
I’m
making an amendment about keeping complaints to a minimum. You’re worse than a kid,” he scolded, thumping his finger against my chest. “Behave.”

He was going for no-nonsense, but he looked really fucking cute. I captured his hand and placed a chaste kiss on his fingers. “I’ll try.”

THIRTY MINUTES
later we were in a darkened room staring at fancy old clothes. I wondered all over again if this particular adventure was worth the trip. I was a fan of modern design and architecture. While I appreciated the lighting and artful displays, I couldn’t understand the allure of what Benny called the art of shape, texture, and color in fabric form. I glanced up at the feathered dress on the mannequin and then at him. He had an awestruck look on his handsome face that would have made more sense to me if we’d been staring at a life-sized replica of the
Millennium Falcon
. Not fabric and feathers.

“I’m not seeing what you are. I see feathers in weird places on a dress I have to think most women wouldn’t wear to pick up their mail. What am I missing?” I whispered.

He didn’t bother reprimanding my lack of imagination. He was too enthralled with the wispy, haute-couture creation on a raised platform behind a shield of protective glass.

“It’s perfection. Man-made and handmade. A fearless blend of old and new technique in design. This entire exhibit is about technology’s influence on modern design. And this dress is… angelic,” he pronounced reverently.

“It looks like an uncomfortable shedding liability. If I’m cleaning up feathers, I’d hope it’s after a naked pillow fight instead of a costume malfunction.”

Benny burst into laughter, quickly covering his mouth when a fellow fashion enthusiast shot an irritated glance our way.

“You mean I can’t wear this to bed?”

I snaked my arm around his waist and gave him a lopsided, lecherous grin. “You can wear whatever you want. Even a dress.”

He turned in my arms and kissed my chin before stepping out of reach. “You’d only rip it. Your appreciation for the finer things in life doesn’t extend to costumes.”

“Hmm. I’m just saying real people don’t wear feathers.”

“Not true. And that isn’t the point. This is art. There is a message here.”

“Which is?”

“You can be whatever and whoever you want. No limit. No fear. No shame. The colors, the texture you drape yourself in can be your shield from adversity or your source of strength. They say so much about an individual. And I’m not talking from a haute-couture high horse. I’m talking about real life. Look at what you’re wearing.”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I asked, looking down at my khakis and light blue, short-sleeved designer shirt.

“Nothing. But I can read you like a book. Your clothes say ‘safe.’ They say you’re a well-off, successful man who knows he’s good-looking and doesn’t mind accentuating his assets with complementary color choices. At a passing glance, you rank a thumbs-up.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“But if you read a little deeper, you see a man with a subtle lack of imagination and some serious control issues.”

I caught the glint of humor in his gaze and chuckled softly. “Oh? Go on….”

“I’m not being unkind. I’m stating a truth. We can’t help but give pieces of ourselves away through our dress and appearance.”

“Isn’t it what’s on the inside that counts?” I asked in a teasingly condescending tone.

“Yes, but we’re talking about two different things. Fashion 101… just because something is expensive doesn’t mean it’s art. Cost isn’t what matters. It’s when the authenticity of the wearer and the fabric meet that something truly special happens. You can pull that off by shopping at a thrift store all day long. Clothes don’t make a man. A man… or woman makes the clothes. It’s all about attitude. Take this winged gown, for example. The piece itself is art, but it can become transcendent when a free-spirited woman with attitude wears it.” He winked as he yanked at my arm playfully. “Or a fearless man who’s learned to accept himself.”

“Strangely, that makes sense,” I commented as I reached for his hand again. I couldn’t seem to stop touching him. “How did you become interested in design?”

“My mother and grandmother both sew. I grew up surrounded by
Vogue
pattern books. I used to pore over them the way most boys my age flipped through comics. My favorite thing in the world was an excursion to the fabric store. I loved the rows of bright colors and drawers filled with sequins and beads, like gold and jewels from a treasure chest. It was better than picking out candy. The frustrating part was that even though I learned how to sew early, I didn’t have the creative outlet to go crazy. I learned to make tablecloths and napkins for the restaurant, then curtains and eventually clothes. But we couldn’t afford luxurious fabrics, and no one in my family was attending a gala anyway. It wasn’t until I found a cast-off dress form to practice on that I was able to do my thing. I was fifteen by then.”

“Why didn’t you ask for one earlier?”

“I did. It didn’t go well.” He gave me a sad smile as he dropped my hand and headed toward the next exhibit.

“What happened?” I asked in a low voice as I followed him.

“My dad left.”

“Because you liked to sew?”

“No, but I think it was the final straw. I was too much for my dad in the wrong ways and not enough in the ways he hoped I’d be. He heard me ask my mom if I could borrow my cousin Ella’s doll. I probably said I wanted to make her something, as a gift. My six-year-old self knew not to ask for a doll of my own. But asking to borrow it didn’t go over any better. I remember being so disappointed because I’d chosen that word with care.”

“Borrow?”

“Yes. I wasn’t asking for something of my own. Just a chance to spend time with something I coveted that couldn’t be mine.” He let out a humorless chuckle and shook his head. “Now I know better than to settle for anyone’s castoffs or to borrow happiness. I deserve my own. At six, I didn’t know but… semantics hardly mattered. He left anyway.”

We stared at the red vinyl minidress on display in silence and then moved again. In a strange way, his story resonated with me, though I couldn’t say why. I was nothing like Benny as a child. I hadn’t wanted dolls or to make dresses. I liked sports and anything to do with space travel. I couldn’t remember feeling conscious of hiding pieces of myself until my teen years.

“He didn’t leave because of you, Ben. He left because he wasn’t brave. He wasn’t strong enough to deal with what he didn’t understand.”

“Brave. Hmm. You’re right. You have to be brave to love sometimes.” He cocked his head sideways and gave me a long, searching look. “It just doesn’t seem right that a parent would need courage to love their kid.”

“Maybe
brave
isn’t the right word. I meant—”

“I think it is,” he insisted with a wan half smile. “I’m not a parent, so I can’t speak from experience, but I imagine you have to give up a ton of preconceived notions to truly love someone unconditionally. Some people get there and others struggle for life. Thank goodness I landed with my momma. She encouraged me to be proud of who I am and who I could become.”

“That’s good, but give yourself some credit. You’re a brave man, Benny.”

“Sometimes I am, sometimes I’m not. I’m just me. The difference is that now I accept myself. Come on, there’s a Lagerfeld up here I’m dying to see.”

“Hang on.” I scratched my head and then stuffed my hands in my pockets and smiled. “I—it’s his loss. He doesn’t know what he missed out on. That six-year-old kid turned into a fucking amazing guy. Brave, strong, and bold. I’m proud to know you, Ben.”